The following story is almost certainly a work of fiction.
If you shouldn't be reading this sort of thing, because of the rules which operate in the place where you live, then your decision to continue reading must be a matter between you, your conscience, and your relationship with whoever it is who makes the rules be it your mother or your government.
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Lost Ball: Part 7
`The Gift of Love...'
In the darkness, I could hear Leo's breathing, regular and deep, and just this side of the occasional snore. From the little noises that he made in his sleep, from time to time, I could tell that he was dreaming...and I presumed that if I could see his face clearly I would see movement in it as he responded to whatever images were coursing through his subconscious. After his experiences of the past hours and days, it was no surprise that his brain should be churning away, busy processing all of the new things he'd confronted and, quite apart from that, it was no surprise that he should be sleeping, exhausted from the sheer level of his physical activity, being fucked for the first time not once but twice in two separate sessions in the course of a single day.
After I was certain that he'd dropped off to sleep, I'd carefully rolled him off me and extricated myself from his embrace, in order to turn out the bedside lights, and plunge the room into darkness. I felt fairly drained myself, and I had in mind following his example, and sleeping alongside him, perhaps for an hour or so.
But, I found that I couldn't. My mind, too, was racing.
And it was for the very opposite of the reason why Leo's brain was chuntering away at nineteen to the dozen. Where he was busy working to assimilate new experiences and ideas, I was all too familiar with what it was that I was having to deal with. Over the years, at various times, I'd had tricks, one-night-stands, fuck-buddies, boyfriends, and lovers I knew myself and my reactions only too well, and that was why I recognized quite clearly what was going on here, with Leo.
I was becoming involved. More than that, if I was entirely honest: I risked falling in love with him.
And that could not be a good idea.
For a start. In fact, most importantly...there was his age. He was fifteen years old. There was thirty years between us. Ok, he was bright; he was clever, and he appeared very mature for his age. But the fact remained that he was looking at life's experiences from an entirely different place from me. How could we even communicate effectively, since the very words we would often be using might not even have the same meaning for both of us informed for me by experience, whilst for him they would come as-yet free of any baggage. The idea that there was a chance of anything valid developing between us made no sense.
I'd never previously found myself in this kind of situation with anybody of Leo's age. The last time my sexual antics had involved a boy of Leo's age, I'd been that boy (and for anybody interested, the other participant at that time had been the junior Games Master, at School, with whom I'd engaged in six months of furtive sex, before he disappeared, without warning, at the end of Easter Term). Teenage boys aren't my usual focus although, to be fair, I don't precisely have a `usual' focus; my attraction in practice is to anybody who has a particular kind of sexual `edge', a beguiling combination of mental challenge and sexual tension, which is something that can be found in boys or men of any age. Often, I'd found it in quite surprising individuals and circumstances. And, now, in the energy he generated as he addressed his own developing sexual urges, and in trying to make sense of them and to articulate them, I'd found it in Leo.
It was in the look in his eyes, as he reached hungrily for more intense gratification, both mental and physical. And it was in the way he invited new experiences, and made himself available to whatever they might bring him. And it was in the unquestioning trust that he appeared to place in me to take him, safely, to places that he couldn't beforehand even have dreamt might exist.
And it was in the fact that, in doing so, I knew that I wanted to protect him and to keep him safe, even as I prompted him to tread the edge of the precipitous drop that might exist beyond his boundaries.
Fuck! This wasn't going to end well. I could feel it in my water.
But, at the same time, I've always worked on the premise: `Don't analyze; don't rationalize...just get on with it!'
Inwardly I sighed. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. And there was little I could do about it.
In the small amount of light that filtered past the edge of the curtain in the dressing room doorway, my eyes had got sufficiently accustomed to the darkness to be able to make out Leo's sleeping form, the curve of his hip, and his shoulder, as he lay with his back to me. At the risk of waking him, I moved against him, and put my arm around his chest. Only half-waking, he took my hand, and pulled me close against him, before he fell back to sleep.
And so, finally, with my breath gently caressing the nape of his neck, did I.
I woke, sometime later, to pressure on my bladder demanding my attention. And either my movement in leaving the room, or else the noise of the dressing room door as I passed through on my way to the bathroom, must have woken Leo, as I returned to find his bedside lamp switched on, and Leo himself half sitting up, resting back on one hand while with the other he rubbed blearily at his eyes. Unsurprisingly, the place stank like a turkish wrestler's changing room, and I opened the window to let in some air, although I left the internal shutters in place, so the evening sunlight that came in, reflected off the church wall on the other side of the courtyard, was filtered, and the room was only softly illuminated by its glow.
"I needed a pee," I explained, and climbed back onto the bed.
"Oh. Ok," he yawned. And then said that he also needed the bathroom. "Where...?" Despite his familiarity with my bed, he was as yet still ignorant of the layout of the house. I told him, and, still yawning, he left the room, apparently entirely unabashed by his nakedness. Which I enjoyed, unashamedly.
In his absence, I quickly straightened the bedding, and by the time he came back, I was stretched full length on my side of the bed, arms behind my head, and I watched him as he came back into the room, and climbed onto the bed, to kneel beside me. He was smiling, and although he looked as though he was about to say something, no words were forthcoming, and, rather than words, his smile merely broke instead into a broad grin. I looked up at him, and stroked his thigh. And then I leant forward and lightly kissed his knee. The look with which I returned his, spoke volumes, intentionally, and I echoed his grin with a smile of my own.
At which precise moment, his stomach rumbled long and loudly, practically in my ear. He looked chastened.
"You're hungry?" I asked him or maybe I told him - and he confirmed that he was he was a fifteen-year-old boy, after all, and no food had been consumed in at least four hours "Wait here. I'll be right back". And I was, in the time it took me to make a lightning raid on the kitchen and assemble a picnic of whatever I'd found in the fridge: some cold chicken, a couple of white peaches, a tub of greek yoghurt. And a bottle of chilled white wine, that had already been opened, but with only one glassful already taken from it.
I returned, to find Leo sitting up with his back against the headboard, his chin resting on his knees, which he clasped with one arm, while he examined something which he held in his other hand. His cock and balls presented innocently, nestled between his thighs; but unlike me - he seemed unaware of the fact, and I had to resist the urge immediately to reach forward and fondle them. The thing he was looking at was a framed photograph which he'd spied on the nightstand: it was of me and two friends in a water taxi on the Grand Canal in Venice, taken some twenty years previously; but it wasn't the picture that had caught his eye, but the fact that I'd now also placed under the glass, obscuring the corner of the photograph, the torn bookmark that we'd defaced together the first time that he'd been in my bed. He chewed his lip, as he considered the fact of the memento preserved in that way...and then he looked up, apparently pleased. Perhaps, because it represented a shared memory...or possibly because it was a statement, in some small way, of him having established a foothold in my world - like a dog, marking its territory.
He returned the frame to the nightstand beside him, and his face lit up at the sight of the food. Having deposited the plate, I poured wine into the water glass at my bedside, and drank from it. As he thought. Except that I hadn't swallowed, but retained the wine in my mouth, as I climbed onto the bed, and knelt beside and above him. At my touch on his chin, he raised his face for a kiss, and was surprised, when I lowered my lips to his, to find that instead of the expected kiss, a trickle of wine entered his mouth from mine. Which he held on his tongue, and then swallowed, just as I swallowed the remainder which I hadn't transferred to him. His eyes gleamed at the exchange, and his smile as I looked down at him was particularly wicked: this was going to be a picnic with a difference!
I fed him. As
though he was some kind of pasha. I held a chicken drumstick to his
lips, for him to bite into...and then, the morsel which had fallen onto his chin,
I transferred to my finger, and gently fed to him from my fingertip...which he,
in turn, sucked into his mouth, and nipped with his teeth. And, once the
drumstick was finished, I cleaned his lips and his chin with my tongue, which
he then, in turn, had to clean with his. And then, he did the same to me, with
the other drumstick. It was a kind of `copy what I do', lesson...a little like
We were both of us hard, throughout but it was rather as a general condition, than as any statement of intent. If this was sex as play, then it was more in the form of a parlour game than of a contact sport; process-focused rather than steaming aggressively towards a result. In between feeding morsels to each other, we allowed hands to stray, and to maintain a connection, as we stroked, and fondled, and explored. And we talked. Which, when they aren't being used to provide physical support, is exactly what pillows are for.
We talked, it seemed, endlessly. About each other. He answered my questions, and I answered his although, I felt that a lot of the detail about my life, whilst efficiently filed away in his mind, didn't particularly compute with him, as many of the things I was talking about were so far outside his frames of reference as to have meaning only in outline. Perhaps probably - he would come to colour them in... in time.
As I fondled his cock, I questioned him about his home-life the conversation intermittent, and punctuated by kisses. An only child, his parents were both high-powered doctors; his father a lot older than his mother, and in fact of an age where he could have been a young grandfather rather than Leo's actual father. He was a surgeon, by training, but now also had some sort of job with a government commission, which kept him in Rome, away from home for four nights a week; while his mother specialized in a field of immunology, and seemed to have some international standing in her field, which meant that she too was away from home a lot, for congresses, and symposia. Leo's grasp was vague of exactly what it was that they did but that was understandable; when I'd been his age, I couldn't really have told you what it was that my dad did for a living, although I knew what his job title was, and who he worked for. I sensed a relationship between Leo and his parents of mutual respect, and of concern, but at the same time a structure within which each of them was - and was expected to be - largely self-sufficient. There was a housekeeper, a woman called Ginevra, who for years had been the one who'd been on-hand when both of his parents were called away...and although I half expected to hear that she occupied a special place in Leo's heart, in fact, he seemed to regard her entirely mechanically, merely as some kind of functionary. This was the first summer when, at his pleading, she'd not moved into the house to be generally present during those long periods of the summer break when he was more or less left to his own devices. Which meant that he was free, much more than ever before, to come and go entirely as he pleased.
The wine was finished. Much of it, I had consumed; some of it, Leo had drunk every time I'd passed the glass to him, he'd taken a sip, but he'd never reached across to take any for himself and some of it had been dribbled over various body-parts, to be licked off, and had mostly ended up leaving damp patches on the bedsheets. The last of it, Leo had, in fact, taken, when he'd filled his mouth, and then pushed me onto my back, so that he could lean over and copy my earlier action, in expelling it carefully from his mouth and into mine. Some of it, I drank down, and then, with some still left, I put my mouth to his, and gave it back to him, for him to swallow.
Outside, darkness had fallen.
"It's time to make a move," I told him, and received in reply the universal teenage grunt of rebellion, as he pushed his face mutinously into my side. "Come on. You know you don't want to fuck up." Which was true. The crisis on his previous visit had been because there was a family outing, to celebrate his grandmother's birthday, and he'd missed a three-line whip to be home and be ready by five-thirty. The consequences of that had included a threat that perhaps Ginevra ought to be looking after him 24/7, after all...and it had only been his repeated assurances that he would be entirely responsible and reliable and scouts-honour about being left in the house on his own which included being back home and in bed by a reasonable time, each evening, even when there was nobody else there - that had persuaded them not to summon her and effectively to cancel all privileges for the summer period.
"You're right." He sat up, and arranged his features to look resolute.
"You need a shower." And he did, too. Quite apart from the lingering traces of sex, from several hours earlier, and in spite of all my efforts with my tongue, on his chest there was still a splash of the sticky residue of peach juice, and a smear of yoghurt was clearly visible in amongst the tangle of his pubic hair (from a glob, which I'd smeared over his cock, and had then, mostly, licked off).
"You need a larger shower," I was told, when Leo realized that it wouldn't be possible for us both to fit into the shower stall together.
"Or a smaller boy," I suggested. Which earned me a filthy glare.
His technique in the shower, I found fascinating. It was as though he was involved in combat with the water as it cascaded over him, rather than merely standing under it, like any other person would do, and there was a physicality to the way he engaged with it at some points he seemed to be fending the water off, and at others, he actively wrestled with it as he doused his face, and noisily ejected spouts of the stuff, like a baby humpback whale. On one level it was charming, and on another, it ended up with a massive amount of water being thrown around the room (admittedly, not helped by the fact that I left the screen door of the shower stall open so that I could watch as he showered). Once he'd finished his programme of aquatic destruction, and the shower was turned off, I found a towel that had somehow escaped the Leo-tsunami, and he stood as I energetically toweled him dry. He took the towel which I had draped around his neck, when I'd finished, and he tied it around his waist, and then he carefully combed his hair, facing the mirror above the basin. As he did so, I took a quick shower, in turn.
I stood behind him and held his shoulders, as he completed his ministrations, and I looked at him looking at me in the mirror. The top of his head came to just below my eyes.
"A smaller boy?" he asked, in challenge.
"Well, maybe not." I kissed his ear. "I think perhaps this size of boy will do. Just fine."
We got as far as the armchair in the corner of the dressing room, before yet again the urge took over to touch and to kiss, and for a general level of optimal physical contact. The fact that he would have to dress and leave soon only seemed to increase appetites to make as much as we could of the present opportunity. I sat back onto the chair, pulling him into my lap. We, both of us, were dressed only in the post-shower towels tied at our waists. His arms circled my neck, and with one hand I held him around the shoulders, while my other hand traveled from his thigh, down to his calf, and then up again, to rest on his thigh under his towel. As my tongue played against his, I was aware of his breathing increasing in both rate and intensity, and as my hand slid up into his groin, above the warmth generated by his balls, it was no surprise to find his cock hard once more, and thick in my grasp. I circled the base of his shaft with my hand, and he gave a little urgent grunt, and began to work himself against my touch, as I gripped him.
And, suddenly, I remembered. Surprised at myself that I could have forgotten.
"I've got something for you," I told him. And I gently eased him off my lap, to stand, so that I could reach across and rescue the carrier bag which bore the logo of the local underwear shop, from the corner beside the chest of drawers where I'd deposited it, the evening before. I rooted around inside, and drew out a small box, which I handed to him. "For you."
As he stood there, the front of his towel did nothing to hide the shape of his hard cock, tenting it, as it jutted out in front of him. In the summer heat, even at this time of evening, his hair was already almost dry, and the white of the towel contrasted sharply with his tanned flanks.
He examined the picture on the front of the box, and I watched his face as comprehension dawned. From inside, he drew out a skimpy bundle of fabric, which he proceeded to unfold, and then to hold up, for us both to see. A pair of white briefs, probably slightly briefer than his usual style, with a blue waistband, and matching blue piping around the legs and the contours of the fly. The fabric was slightly silky to the touch I knew and would stretch tightly over him, when worn. The defining feature of the briefs, though was that the fly was not the usual `y' configuration, but instead the opening was horizontal, making it possible to dip a hand inside and easily to scoop out the wearer's cock . As soon as I'd spied them, in the shop, I'd had an image of Leo sitting astride me, with his balls exposed and cock standing proud, centrally exposed through that fly, rather than sticking out awkwardly either through the leg of his briefs, or else, even more awkwardly straining through the opening of a pair of traditional y fronts. These things had `made for Leo' written all over them.
"For me?" he asked, as he held them up, sliding his fingers through the defining fly opening, "or for you?" He regarded me gravely.
"Oh, they wouldn't fit me," I replied, my tone entirely bland.
"No," he agreed. And then he repeated his question. "But...are they for me, or for you?"
"Well..." Ok. Busted. "Well...for both of us". I floundered. He'd got me; and he knew it. "For you...to enjoy wearing...and...for me...to enjoy... that you're enjoying ...wearing them."
There was a pause, while he searched for the exact phrase he wanted from what I'd already discovered was quite an impressive English vocabulary. "Are you, perhaps...a `dirty old-man'?" he asked, finally.
"God, yes!" I confirmed, readily. "Isn't that the whole point?" And as I met his look - with a sense that maybe we weren't quite so unevenly matched, after all - his serious faηade crumbled, and the grin he gave me was one of pure, and wicked, pleasure.
"Please," he said, at last, as he held out the briefs for me to take. "Help me put them on."
His hand rested on my shoulder, and he had one foot halfway through the leg of his underwear it was becoming a familiar position. Although, it was a first that this time I was actually helping him on with his briefs, rather than helping him out of them. First one foot, and then the other, and then he stood in front of me, his new briefs round his ankles, and I slowly began to pull them up his legs. He made no attempt to help, not even by moving his legs closer together, and as I pulled his underwear up and into place, I had to stretch the waistband and the fabric wide enough to accommodate his stance. As my hands moved higher, up and beneath the towel that he still wore, it lifted and parted as I climbed; I was put in mind of all those images of blokes awkwardly getting changed under a towel on the beach mostly from end-of-the-pier type postcards - except that any resemblance to those began and ended with that single idea. The lump under his towel that was prodding my shoulder made quite sure of that. I pulled the briefs up into place, over his bum, and then snugly into place between his legs, and encasing his balls and, as far as I could, his engorged cock. And, with a flourish, I finally tugged the towel away, as though unveiling an exhibit, and there it was...perfection.
I stood, close to him, and slid my hands between his legs, cupping him front and back, while he stood there and let me do it. His arse muscles in one hand, and the hardness of his cock in the other felt incredible, as I groped him. He said nothing, merely breathing hard, and he appeared to be looking into middle distance, not connecting with me, at all. If anything, he just appeared to be connecting with his cock, and only through that with what my hands were doing to him. More or less, I understood what he was doing; this wasn't Leo being Leo, this was Leo being Boy as sex-object. I'd wanted to dress him up, in order to turn him into my personal wank fantasy...and so, that was what he was being. There was no hint of criticism involved; he was entirely on board with it. It was pure, and intense and fucking exciting.
Dropping my own towel to the ground, I nudged him towards the armchair that I'd just vacated, and he knelt up on the seat, resting his arms on the back of the chair, and looking downward, making no effort to engage as a person with what was about to happen. He leant forward, and stuck his arse out, his back concave, and he rested his face on the top of the cushion that formed the back of the chair. It was a pose not unlike that from several hours earlier, when he'd knelt naked on the bed, awaiting my touch - but where that earlier pose had been proud and upright and statuesque, this new image was different, and the fact that his legs were slightly further apart, that his arse was pointing wantonly out, and that his head was bowed in submission, turned that same pose into one which cried out: Fuck me! Every fibre in his body seemed to be crying out to be taken. And, to be taken now.
He wasn't looking at me, or appeared to register that this was `me' standing here behind me; he was just there and making himself available to be fucked. By whoever.
I moved close behind him, and my cock nudged against his briefs, stretched tight across the crevice of his arse, Without touching my cock, I moved it up and down, along the crevice, and then I pushed it between his legs, and prodded the underside of his balls, through the lycra, with my cockhead.
I placed my left hand at his hip, and with my other hand, I ran my fingernails down the expanse of his back, to the waistband of his briefs, and then down, and round, to cup him once more in front. And then, I did as I'd had in mind all along and I dipped my hand down inside the fly of his pants, and I touched first his balls, warm and tight, and then the base of his erection. Which I manipulated, and in a second both his cock and balls were pulled out through his fly, free and exposed. Glancing at the uncurtained window just to right of the chair, I saw, in reflection, his cock standing ramrod straight, hard up against his belly.
I pulled the leg of his briefs to one side, across his arse, and exposed his arsehole to the touch of my fingers. Still, he said nothing...and even as I smeared a generous slather of my saliva from my fingertip to his arsehole, all I could hear was his deep and regular breathing.
Which changed, at the moment when I placed my cockhead at the entrance to his arse, and then, without ceremony, I pushed it into him. He gasped, at the first intrusion, and then set up a low moaning as I began to fuck him, in and out, and increasingly deeper, and more insistently. As I fucked, incrementally harder, I reached round and pinched his nipples, and grabbed his cock, wanking him. His breath came in a series of low moans, one eliding into the next, but even so he didn't raise his head, but by now was biting into the top of the cushion. I could feel myself building within him, and pulled his back hard against me, as I reached round to jerk his cock in time with my fucking. In that position, his arse was even more available than it had been when I'd previously fucked him, and when I bottomed inside him it was with an intensity he hadn't yet experienced. And, as I did so, it sent him over the edge, as he shot all over my hand and the chair cushions with the same level of energy as though he'd not had sex in days. I came pretty much at the same time that he did, but with nothing like the dramatic force, and the moment seemed to me to be almost entirely his. I clasped his body, still quivering, in my arms, and wrapped myself around him, as he remained in position on the chair.
I was worried. At his continued silence. At the idea that maybe this had been too much for him...maybe physically, maybe emotionally.
"Are you ok?" He held my hands with his, and moved within my arms. "Leo?"
He turned enough so that I could see that he was smiling, out of breath, and slick with sweat, but smiling.
"God, yes!" He said.
"Maybe I shouldn't have fucked you so hard...I'm sorry...I got carried away." I felt guilty at the way I'd lost control. But his smile continued, and he seemed one very happy boy, as he dredged up the words he wanted from his memory: "wasn't that the whole point?"
to be continued...